Pulse
by Hikari Nanase
Summary: ALPHA-OMEGA OF THE BLUE ROSE ANTHOLOGY: Pulse- n. an aspect crucial to the tides nature, which cannot and will not be heard, seen, or understood.
1. Default Chapter

"Pulse" Chapter 1

4/23/03

By: Hikari Nanase

E-mail to: hikari1612@netzero.net

Notes: This is the style I choose, accompanied with intentional spacing, breaks, and stream of consciousness. Everything is with purpose.

~*~*~*~

**Pulse- _n._**A rhythmic vibration. [From Latin, _pulsus_, from _pellere_, beat]

                                                                                -_Webster's Dictionary_

~*~*~*~

                Sometimes, if the wind blows hard enough, the front wheel of an overturned bicycle will spin. When it spins, the silver ribs of the wheel capture the light from the sun- just like a pinwheel.

                A pinwheel. His mother had given him such a thing when he was a child. He remembered how the blades would slice the air and scare the crows away. Its spinning protected the flowers. Its constancy brought peace. He stuck it in the soft, dark soil.

                When you're young, the world is a pinwheel; the world is as calm and as quiet as that overturned bike, lying immobile and amidst field or desert. Lying there, its shiny paint glinted red in the sun. The bicycle was as red as the leaves.

                Leaves. Red as blood. Red as his hair. Fall.

                It is never easy peddling along the foot of a mountain; a child's legs could only do so much. Yet he pedaled along that dusty road everyday, the long reeds of thistle hissing in soft beige and yellow torrents as he drove by. Always, the skies were dim. The clouds threatened rain, and yet never found the generosity or the cruelty to release a single cold tear. He would stop riding when he arrived at that spot- the spot where the old maple tree grew. Its branches were stretched out like wretched hands that clawed at the gray blue, but in spite of such a threatening touch, he climbed that tree everyday and found comfort within its palm. 

                In its palm he would lay down, his blooming cheek pressed tenderly against the ragged groves of rotting bark. He would close his deep, green eyes and breathe in the moisture of the world. Pleasure was found in that tree, when shadows engulfed his vision and the constant whispering of those fields of thistles and barely drowned his ears in clamoring ecstasy.

                Then, the bike he left behind, the one he dropped on the ground, would turn its wheel. Slowly, and soon quickly, until the wheel found the speed of flight, but flew nowhere.

                The red leaves rattled and shivered, singing songs of loneliness these plains knew too well. Even the maple was alone, it stood stark naked before the ice capped peak. No one comes here, but the boy.

                The boy had red eyes. He comes here everyday. He found him by the eye of the maple tree, which had been blind for centuries. The first time he found him, he found him buried up to his neck in mud. 

                "Mommy! I'm going out to play!"

                "All right, sweetheart! But be sure to bring your jacket! It looks chilly outside today."

                "'Kay!"

                He jumped from the old windowsill he was sitting at, ran out of the kitchen and into the living room. There, he opened the closet and retrieved his sweater before heading outside. 

                As he closed the rusty screen door behind him, the boy pulled up his hood and zipped himself up to his neck. For a moment he stood on the creaking wood of the porch, his eyes entranced by the currents of wind that made the fields sway and dance. Taking in a deep breath of air, he sighed and entrenched his little hands within his pockets. As he took his first step away from home, the soil bore to his presence by allowing his already soiled shoes to sink into the wet earth. 

                The boy gasped, then giggled, pulling his legs up and feeling the funny suction of the mud fool around with the weight of his feet.  

                "I'm big! Boom! Boom! Boom!"

                With each sound stomp, the land beneath him crumbled and sucked. For a while he did this, gazing fixatedly at the peculiar size of his footprints that bedecked the dirt road just several yards away from his house. The indents were everywhere, scattered about like fresh gopher holes. Turning to his house again, he saw his mother watch him from the door. She had on her her usual yellow apron, which was quite possibly the only bright thing in the entire countryside in which they lived. With that yellow apron, she wore a yellow smile- one that was only mellowed by the distinct wetness in her eyes that her son simply could not fathom.

                "Look! I made my mark on the earth! See?"

                "That you did. You did a very good job too. Maybe when someone passes by, they'll wonder who was the big, great person who left those marks."

                The boy laughed.

                "Do you think so?"

                "Why not? Who will you show them to first?"

                "I'm not sure. If I had a friend, I'd show him. Do you think any other people will move out here?"

                His mother fell silent, and her eyes watered. 

                "Perhaps."

                "…I hope so. There's no one to talk to, but the plants. And they don't say much, really."

                She fell silent once more, her thin lips forming an inconsolable line across her pale face. Her son looked up to her hopefully, all his dreams and joys in the world engorged within the soft innocence that made his skin supple and new. She tried her best to make herself smile in assurance, but found that she could only tear her eyes away from her child and take them toward the solitary figure that cast its shadow across the plain. She raised her hand to point.

                "There's a tree over there, Shuiichi. Maybe if you climb on it you can see another house. I'll take you there if you like. If there's someone home, maybe you can play with them."

                "Okay. It looks far though. Can I take my bike?"

                "Sure. Just be careful, dear."

                Scampering across out of the road and into the field, the child went to the side of their house toward the garage. Raising his arms above his head, he pulled on the doorknob of the garage as hard as he could- heaving it open and dashing inside before the door could slam tightly. Once inside, he felt put his hand against the cold wall and felt around for the light switch. More than twice did he fumble in the dark, his fingers knocking over a few boxes, which contained nothing but bubblewrap and newspaper. When he found the switch at last, he flicked it on and slowly bent down to clean up the mess he made. Having set aside the boxes, he sidled between the mountains of storage and the station wagon that hadn't run since he was no more than three years old. The thick layer dust from the car sullied the sides of his pants as he squeezed toward the red bicycle that leaned against the old hose and wheelbarrow filled with spades and forks. 

                Finally reaching the bike, he reached up along the wall and pressed another button. Almost instantly, the sound of lime covered chains grinding against wheels ensued- the light from outside sweeping into the garage like pseudo dawn. 

                He steadied the bike by gripping onto the handlebars and carefully sat on it, finding his center of balance. Setting his foot on the pedal, he pushed forward and gracelessly landed on the ground knees first.

                "Ouch!" 

                Looking at his bike, he saw the problem quickly. The hose was entangled with the wheel like a snake. Sighing, he patted his hands against the sides of his pants and crawled for the wheel. As patiently as he could, he pulled and wound the long tube about until it was freed and thrown aside. Then he set off, this time smoothly and with skill. 

                As he turned about the curb and followed the primeval road along the mountain's foot, his body would bounce lightly above his rubber seat- running over a myriad of pebbles and blemishes that made the earth have freckles. With these freckles were strands of hair- the fields- and a cool breath that blew from the mountain spring. The world seemed to sigh as he made his travel over it, whispers from on-looking willows and fern clouding his ears- laughs from crows and sparrows taunting them mercilessly song. 

                When he reached the tree with the missing eye, he dropped his bike and ran for it as if he missed it for many many years. But instead of embracing it like a long-lost friend, he put his shoe on the bark and pulled himself up with the help of one of the trees gnarly fingers. The leaves shivered and rattled like chimeless bells, and added blush upon the child's face as he surfaced from the foliage and surveyed the lands.

                "Nothing. There's no one here… No one."

                The leaves shivered and rattled. The leaves shivered and rattled. Land, sweet land that rolled on forever like an endless page in an endless book. Turn after turn of rocks, withering flowers, and silence- no more nor less. How the frugality of nature made his heart woe. How hard it was to find escape from those terrible shadows that chased after him and tore away at his soul. The leaves shivered and rattled. The leaves shivered and rattled. They whispered to one another has his face met the mud.

                "What's that noise?"

                The boy heard something- a strange something indeed. It sounded like a thud- a sort of fall, but more muffled and despaired. He thrashed about the palm of the tree- peering through the blood red leaves that matched his red red hair. Fresh green eyes sparkled like pregnant spring amidst sterile fall, darting about livelily for that precious sound. A fall, like a familiar footstep, but more.

                There was snow on the mud. He saw it. So velvety and pure looking that he would have been blind not to see it. It was only a little bit- about the size of a quarter. Without hesitation he jumped from the looming branch he was on to touch it.

                "It's skin."

                With his nails, he pulled away the clay he crouched over. Digging. Digging. The leaves shivered and rattled. The leaves shivered and rattled. Even the roots throbbed. Even the trunk resonated. Digging. Digging. More snow that could not melt. White so white, and smooth so smooth. The boy sweated and rolled up his sleeves. The knees of his jeans were splotched brown; his hands and his forearm were streaked with soil. Perhaps he killed a worm or two. Very likely so. 

                "It's a face!"

                Sleeping. Eyes shut with long lashes that curled like flower tendrils. Clumps of dirt and a bit of dust were caught here and there, sealing his lids shut. Little lips were pursed tightly into a grimace, and thin black eyebrows curved into an agonized frown. Some hair sprouted out like black and white grass. The child smiled brightly and delved his arms deep into the ground, ready to resurrect the little body that lay beneath like a forgotten doll. 

                "Argh! He's stuck!"

                He stood and tried to pull him by the head, but was afraid to hurt him. Moreover, the boy would not budge- he was as ingrained in as the tree. Stiff. Hard. Almost dead.

"I can't! I- I need help!"

                To his cry and the hot tears that left his cheeks and drizzled on the soil, the roots throbbed from beneath the sleeping child. They pulsated and twisted- moving up to push him forward from behind. Slowly, carefully, his shoulders appeared and seemed to glow in contrast to the rich brown that covered him. But then he stopped moving. The roots could do no more. Half of his body and part of his torso were still missing. The other one knelt down again, and began scraping for the boy's whole form. He threw dirt every which way. Ants ran in confusion. Chaos brought in the middle of their paths. Beetles popped out like walking seeds, and then flew they away.

                "Shuiichi! Why are you covered in dirt!"

                Suddenly he stopped and looked behind him, surprised his mother had walked all this way to retrieve him home. 

                "There's a boy beneath the tree! I saw his face!…His skin is as white as snow... I want to help him."

                She looked at him with concern, and then frowned at the enormous hole in the ground that was so deep one may easily fall into it. Fall into it, yes. Fall into it and disappear. A shiver broke her stand, but was camouflaged by her whirling dress and yellow apron.

                "I don't see anyone."

                "He's here! He's here! I'm going to help him!"

                "Don't be silly. Come along and let's go inside."

                "No, mommy. He's _here_!"

                Warily she considered her son's earnest beliefs. Yet her eyes pained her. Soil, dirt, dispersed carelessly and messily- thrown and shredded like shiny gift wrapper on birthday. Then there was the empty hole- a gapping tunnel that seemed to echo a whimpering voice she could not comprehend. She forced her eyes shut, and grinned feebly. 

"…Well then… I suppose you'll have to finish what you've started. When you're through, bring him inside with you."

                "Yes, mom."

                Turning, she walked away and did not look back. This was not a terrible thing, no. It couldn't be. Children did this all the time. 

                He didn't notice when his mother disappeared from sight. Already, he was busy returning his tired, blistering palms to their work. Digging. Digging. The leaves shivered and rattled. The leaves shivered and rattled. Finally, he was able to pull him out entirely and drag him across the thick grass.  The grass hissed. The wind screamed.

                As the sleeping body lay in the bed of plants, breathing at a rhythmically good pace, the other boy sat down and carefully examined him. Such a tiny frame, almost unbelievable in size and build. It was birdlike, long and thin- stiff, but lithe. Then there was his hair, shaped into feathery whisps of obsidian and pearl. It was the purest pattern of the marsh crane. Lastly, there was a feature rather odd: a glowing blue line across his forehead, the kind of blue where the sky was not so cross.

                Timidly, he crawled closer and gently shook the boy by the shoulders.

                "Please wake-up… Please wake-up."

                The hair that dangled over his silent face swayed from side to side, and in spite of all movements he did not stir. Frustrated, he shook harder, wishing so badly he would be pulled from his dormancy and acknowledge his presence.

                "Please, oh please wake-up…"

                His lids twitched, they flew open and let the light in. He saw, and he held his savior fast by the wrist with the harsh grip of his callused hand.

                "Ahh! You're cold!"

                At his touch, he bit back whereas the other threw him to side while he was distracted.  The poor boy whom had helped him landed hard on the long grass, which screamed and screamed as he rolled and rolled before he stopped himself with his hands. The child was nonplused by such ungrateful gestures and was about to reprimand, when he saw the swirling colors of red that stared him down like an oncoming tempest.

                "Wow! Your eyes! They look like autumn!"

                This youthful stranger staggered and stooped down, knees bent and ready for either fight or flight. His clothes were torn and tattered, soaked wet and heavy from being exhumed. His skin trembled, and his teeth chattered. Dark circles rounded his eyes, and he took a haphazard step back as the other took a step forward- one hand outstretched and wanting so badly to touch.

                "Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you."

                He frowned and took another step back, his legs disappearing behind the field- his torso swimming amidst it. Some birds hiding there took flight as they felt the reeds shake. Feathers fell down. The wind took them. It was very cold. He shook like the reeds.

                The boy pinched his lips together and furrowed his brow. Reaching down, he unzipped his jacket, shrugged off the sleeves, and held it out leisurely. 

                "Here, see? This is my jacket. You can have it if you come with me. What's wrong? Can't you talk?"

                The frown deepened, and those autumn eyes scrutinized the offering with utmost distaste. Nevertheless, the boy cautiously bent down, laid the garment on the grass, and backed away. 

                Hesitation. His frown was gone, and he was considering his benefits- that was if any were genuine. Genuine liar. What does he want from me? Take it. Take it. I'm cold. Take it. No, stupid fool. He wants the thing I have that everyone wants. Glass- the glass is what he's after I want the glass lets take the glass from him Hiei doesn't know what it is. They said. They said. I ate mud. Stomach hurts. Cold. Cold. Cold. Like the glass he wants. Take it.

                He dove after the jacket and swiftly put it on. The other child gazed upon him happily- sweetly.

                "Come with me. Mother wants you in the house."

                Mother died a long time ago. Gone dead. She died. Don't kill him. Don't kill him. Let me raise him. Don't kill him. He's my son my son my son. The house with the chambers with the girl and the half-face don't be stupid there are no houses here anymore there's nothing like a family anymore papa touched me there and there so I made myself like this now I wear these bracelets all the time they were the bright red rings she wore on her arms. The bracelets. The bracelets. She was his servant and it left rings on her arms all because she lived in that house and I live in that house too I don't want to go to another house with family there is no family.

                "Can't you talk at all? Say something to me."

                They put mud in my mouth. They put mud in my mouth. I don't cry, but they put mud in my mouth. Don't open it he wants the glass they all want the glass lets take his glass Hiei doesn't know what it is. They want my glass. That's why they put mud in my mouth. He wants the glass. Don't open it.

"…What house?"

"Not far. By the mountain."

"…No… They'll find me..."

"Who?"

"…Them.."

"Who's they?"

"…The people who caught me…"

The boy looked at him as if he were completely out of place. For a moment he looked around to see if anyone was there- an adult or some looming figure that this skinny, pale child terribly feared or terribly hated. 

"No. It's just us here. Come with me. You need to get warmed up. You're shaking all over. It's because of the mud."

They put me in the mud! They put me in the mud! I was running and then I fell the leaves shivered and rattled the leaves shivered and rattled I ran away from that house with the girl and the half face and the papa that touched her everywhere so she took off her skin with burning acid and then we ran and we separated and then they were running after me because her papa wanted the glass they all wanted the glass. Cold. Cold. Cold. Hungry. My stomach hurts.

"I can hide you if you come."

"…No. I can't go far from here…"

"Why not?"

"…I can't… This is where I stay…"

"You live here?"

"…No. This is where I stay…"

He didn't know what to do with him. After all the effort that was spent on unearthing this lowly boy, it seemed his labors were lost on a tongue and mind that spoke nothing, but the same words over and over. Worried, he ran his fingers through his scarlet hair and sighed despondently. It is wrong for him to leave this person here; and it was plainly depressing to him that this person also didn't even seem to have an operating brain. The child would stare blankly at him, practically straight through him as if he was not there. Actually, he could to do very much the same. The other was so scrawny and pale he looked like a sheet of rice paper.

The wheel began to spin. At this hour, when the sun set and the colors disappeared, the wind howled and made the front wheel spin. When he heard that dependable sound, he turned in its direction and saw his idle bike beckoning him to come to it. 

"Let's go. Follow me."

He proceeded to leave, and instinctively sensed the other's presence following his direction guardedly. What he did_ not _sense, was that the child from the tree had momentarily stopped to pick up a gagged stone and pocket it within the folds of his black pants. Crimson hair flew to the west as he held onto his handlebars and waited for his newfound acquaintance to join him. Autumn eyes scrutinized the bizarre contraption the other was sitting on, offering the same distaste he had for the jacket. On the rubber seat, the child moved forward.

"You're not that big. Sit behind me. I think there's enough room. Come. Sit."

Motioning enthusiastically and patting the bike, he cajoled the other into obeying. Yet all this while, he did not know. He did not know that the one sitting behind him carried a sharp, gagged stone.

As they turned about the field and followed the primeval road along the mountain's foot, their bodies would bounce lightly above their rubber seat- running over a myriad of pebbles and blemishes that made the earth have freckles. With these freckles were strands of hair- the fields- and a cool breath that blew from the mountain spring. The world seemed to sigh as they made their travel over it, whispers from on-looking willows and fern clouding their ears- laughs from crows and sparrows taunting them mercilessly song.

Blinding. Mesmerizing. The great shade of red his eyes swallowed. Sweet smell of hair he never knew was possible- of vanilla and rose and sugar so fine. Silky crimson strands before his autumn eyes. Soft and light like a newborn. Clean and fresh. Innocent.

                No such thing. Don't trust anyone. There's no one in the world to trust. Don't kill him don't kill him he's my son let me raise him my son my son please I beg of you don't kill him. She killed herself because of me I couldn't even trust her to have faith in my ability to survive mother mother mother. Don't trust anyone because they'll either hurt you or betray you. She hurt me she hurt me she didn't live for me she thought I died so she died too now I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead. I'll take this fool with me I'll kill him before he kills me or tries to touch my inside and take my glass because the glass is what those women gave me and it hurts it hurts it hurts I can't let him have the glass. I can't let him touch my insides. I'll kill him before he kills me. Kill. Kill. I have to kill him. 

                His hand had dry blood on it, but now those dry streams flourished as he gripped tightly onto that stone, and with his other arm, hold onto the child's waist. 

                The child giggled, feeling the other's arm wrap around him possessively. It was a touch too tight, but the feeling was extraordinary. He liked it. He didn't mind. It felt nice. Secure. He trusted him. 

                "You know… me and my family used to live where lots of people were. But then daddy got a new job and we had a to move out here."

                Secretly, stealthily, he pulled it out. The edge glittered with drops of blood. Some garnet beads dripped from the tip like a used dagger. He left a trail of vitality behind them as they flew through the plains on their bike.

                "It's been really lonely. I don't have many friends. The kids at the pre-school I used to go to thought I was weird. It's because I can talk to plants and see what they see."

                Strange boy. But he had a soothing voice. It must be true. Plants must like to hear him speak. His voice was like the sun. You can't trust the sun. Clouds take it away and bring rain. You can't trust the sun.

                "But it's okay. I don't really mind what they think. I like being different. Besides, this place is really pretty. Everything is peaceful, and if you listen hard enough, you can hear the earth move."

                He took his arm away from his waist and slid it up to just behind the child's neck. 

                "Ahh! Your hands are cold!"

                Hold still. It won't hurt if you hold still. Keep talking, you idiot. You won't notice. My mind is acutely focused when I know what I'm doing. I know what I'm doing. Keep talking, you fool.

                "Don't worry. We're almost home now. I'll get you warmed up. You can have some of my clothes if you want. We'll ask mom first if you can use them. After that, we'll get you something to eat. Fresh baked bread if you like!"

For a second the child took his spring eyes away from the road and glanced behind him with a cheery smile. The other one, the little one, swallowed thickly. His hands quivered. Hesitation. Without thinking, he brought his hand away from his neck and allowed it to return around his waist. Quietly, he dropped the stone as they rode on. It toppled and rolled behind them. The child in front of him giggled. He didn't even know he had a sharp stone.

                "Where are your parents?"

                "…No parents… Just me. I take care of myself."

                "You don't do a very good job of it. You're skinny."

                This wasn't an insult. Truth be told, there was hint of pity around the joking observation. However, if this child had been alive for this long and in these state of conditions, it most likely meant that what he said was true: he takes care of himself. Of course, not wonderfully, but enough to sustain his body and enable him to live on. 

                They could see the warm light that glowed from the windowpane. It was from an old lamp that matched the old lattice that hung over the glass like fine spider web. The child watched everything through that window, hoping for a friend to one day surprise him. To have a friend open the window, step inside and say 'hello'. Yes, this was all that he truly craved. Surprise.

                He waved to his mother as she came out to the rickety porch. Leaning, he swerved his bike to the side and caused a rush of dust to rise. His mother ran down the few steps and came to meet him. Unfortunately, her face turned sour. She placed her hands on her waist.

                "Shuiichi-kun! What happened to the jacket you were wearing!"

                "I gave it to my friend. He was cold."

                "What?"

                "Yes. Tell her; you were cold weren't you?"

                "…I was cold… He gave it to me… I was cold."

                "Young man, don't lie to your mother. Where's your jacket?"

                "I told you, mommy. He's _wearing_ it."

                "Who?"

                "The boy with the autumn eyes. The one I found under the ground."

                Absolutely hopeless. What could she do? Disappoint him? Destroy his imagination? No. She would not do that. Somewhere out there, where the tree was, the jacket will be. It would hang on an old rotting branch- a gnarled finger from its palm. Yes. That's it. The jacket would be rustling on a branch like a blue flag- a sign that shouts: once a boy was here! They would find it later. She tried to forgive.

                "Make sure he returns it."

                "Yes, mom."

                "You can leave the bike on the porch and your shoes on the mat. Now come and let's have supper."

"Can he eat with us to night? Will he be our guest?"

"All right. Tell your friend to go with you to the bathroom. Your hands are so dirty and I'm sure his are too!"

"Yes, mom."

                The woman returned to the kitchen, the screen door bouncing behind her and allowing tiny checkers of light to spill in patterns across the soil. The boy dismounted his bike, and his 'friend' followed suit. He rolled the bike toward the porch and leaned it against the white banister. Flakes of white paint chipped off as the weight of the bike pressed hard against it. They hovered a few moments above the ground thanks to the chilly air. They couldn't stay this way, however, and so were defeated by the fireflies in the distance as the white chips landed on the dirt like powder. 

                "…Snow?"

                "Nope. That's old paint."

                "…Paint?"

                "Wet stuff that dries and changes the color of other stuff you put it on."

                They climbed up the two steps, had one of them remove his shoes for the other was bare, and went inside. Instantly, it was very warm. It felt as though they were in the docile, but dangerous hearth of a kindling fire. The boy glowed ivory. The other boy glowed gold. The house glowed bronze, and it smelt like mother's breath. 

                He touched his fingers and tried to gently hold his hand. Violently, the little one pulled his hand away from his grasp.

                "We need to go to the bathroom. Take my hand if you won't let me take yours. I have to take you there."

                He took him by his pinky, and doing this alone took him a considerable amount of time. All in spite, there was patience. He led them to a washroom with a single sink. It was porcelain with silver taps. The mirror was oval. The light was embedded in the ceiling. He turned the taps and put his hands in, turning the water brown.

                "Mom wants you to wash your hands too. Put them in the sink."

                Wincing at the rush of water, the little one squinted and looked. Cuts, gashes, and blisters everywhere. Pus was coming out of the scabs. White and yellow pus; the kind that weeps when you try to clean them- get rid of them. He could never get rid of them no matter how hard he tried. They always came back with the blood. He turned the water pink. The other watched, but did not flinch.

                "Um… Who are you?"

                In first response, he jolted and blinked, gazing sadly at the one who stood next to him- wholly naïve. 

                Kill him! Kill him! Exhile him to the depths of hell throw him over let him die with the glass. Stop stop stop! Don't kill him he's my son I beg of you to slay me if you are to slay him! Stupid boy called the forbidden child a sorry myth reduced to thievery your name doesn't even have value do you know what a shadow is? It's a void just like black nothing is there and nothing comes out that's what a shadow is and you are just a shadow that can fly and run away but always gets caught. See these chains? See these bracelets? I wear them and so do you. Now you're a shadow that has red rings around his arms and feet sad sad sad. 

"…I'm no one…"

"That's not true. If you got hands, you must be _someone_."

                No further reply. The water kept turning pink.

"So where did you come from?"

"…No where. I'm still… where I'm at. I only ran away… to hide."

He pointed to the wounds.

"Did they do that to you?"

No further reply.

"…I'm sorry... Let's go. Dinner is ready. I can smell it."

Exiting the washing room, the walked down the hallway they went through and went straight to the kitchen. Before pushing open the shutter door, the aroma of mashed potatoes, salad, beef, bread, and rice swept their senses in a gale of anticipation marinated in hunger. Upon entering, the child scowled at what he saw on the round, wooden table surrounded by four woven chairs.

"Mom! You didn't set a plate for my friend!"

"Hm? Oh, I'm sorry. Shuiichi, why don't you just share your plate with him?"

"Can't he have his _own_ plate?"

"…Well… I'm sure he won't mind."

She heard her son mumble an apology from behind, which was later followed by a disquieting pause that frankly bothered her as she proceeded washing the tomatoes and then slicing them on the cutting board. 

"Can he have his own chair, at least?"

The knife was placed carefully into the basin as she took the tomatoes and shoveled them into a bowl mixed with vinegar, sugar, and cucumber. She took that bowl, laid it at the table beside the rice, and dusted her palms along her yellow apron. 

"Of course. Pull a seat out for him right beside you."

Obediently, he pulled out the chair and politely pushed it back in once his friend had seated himself upon it. His mother took her seat across from her son's, and the last chair was as empty as always- father far away at work.

Her son shoveled mounds of rice onto his plate, followed by glomps of potato, and generous portions of sliced beef. One of her eyebrows curved curiously as she watched him divide his supper down the middle of his plate. Thinking it silly, she giggled to herself behind her napkin and ensued eating herself. 

It tasted delicious. It took away the bitter taste of dirt away from his mouth and tongue. But his stomach was so shrunken that it was painful to eat according to his true feeling of greed. His friend saw his trouble, therefore cutting pieces of food into the sizes of coins and cubes. Rude. He ate everything using his fingers. If there were even the slightest grain of salt on his nail, he'd lick it off with his small, pink tongue. His friend laughed, noting the dots of crumbs all over his face. By the time his mother looked up again, his plate was completely empty.

"You've eaten your meal so quickly!"

"He helped me. He ate most of it actually."

"You're friend?"

"Yup. See? He's touching his tummy on his chair. I think he's happy."

"Really? If that's the case, maybe we should let him come over another time- since he helps you finish your dinner."

Jumping off the chair, he took the empty plate and utensils, and dumped them into the kitchen basin. His friend watched him from the table, inquisitively leaning over to observe what he was doing. The kitchen was pleasant. There was white lattice over the sink sill, just like in the living room. A clear jar held a single flower. It was violet, and the glass was rainbow. It was rainbow because of the light. The walls were lined with crinkling wallpaper. Patterns of blue stripes and sunflowers. Old, but new to him. Nothing at all like the other house. In the other house, everything smelt of decay. The kitchen was the worst. One could smell the corpses of slaughtered servants and bounty heads rise from the storeroom, which was locked with heavy chain. Rats crawled and mongered the place more like dogs than like vermin. If a servant were lucky, he'd catch a rat. If he weren't, the girl with the half-face's father would cut off your foot for trying.

 The child came back to the table, and his face fell. The chair next to his had no one sitting on it.

"He's gone. He went away."

"Went away?"

He grimaced. How could his mother not even notice? How could she not see that he was gone?

"Yeah. I think he went back to the eye of the tree."

Mother looked upon son apologetically. She did not know what to say or how to say it. Thankfully, her son comforted himself. Exuberantly, he beamed- all traces of disappointment washed away with a new hope:

"I'm gonna see him again though. I'll go to the eye tomorrow."

"If that's so, you should get ready for bed. Tomorrow will come sooner if you do."

"Mm."

He left the kitchen and ran up the stairs, leaving mother behind to ponder. Anticipation for new daybreak made him jittery. Tearing off his clothes and throwing them into the hamper, he dressed into his loose pajamas and brushed his teeth so hurriedly his mouth frothed and white foam fell on the beige vinyl tiles of the bathroom floor. Later, he ran from the bathroom, slammed the door behind him, and bounced on his bed. The mattress was set tight against the wall where the window was, shielded by the aluminum shafts of his blinds. His little hands forced themselves through the shafts in order to peer outside. His bottle green eyes flickered and wandered, searching for a lean figure walking down the dust path. 

He saw nothing, but he saw the tree. Dark outside, there was only a black silhouette- a mere shadow of its being. Regardless, it was there. That was enough for him. 

Bouncing on his back, he pulled his covers over him and rolled into a tight cocoon. He'll come again. He'll come.

From below, his mother washed the sullied dishes. The entire house creaked and moaned at night, every footfall made causing the wood to white and the lights to flicker. Her bare feet were accustomed to the cool of the old, dry wood. Tonight, however, the wood was wet. She looked down, and was surprised to see…

" Muddy footprints? But where did these come from?"


	2. Pulse Chapter 2

"Pulse" Chapter 2

5/5/03

By: Hikari Nanase

E-mail to: hikari1612@netzero.net

Notes: Apologies for the typos and grammatical errors in chapter 1. 

Jennifer Yeun, you're sense of humor, writing philosophy and friendship did so much for me this year. I will never forget the long hours spent on the bus conversing about prose technique including surrealism, impressionist, and time transition. You are so innovative when it comes to pressing the possibilities in imagery and symbolism to their limits. Thank you for the smiles, Marshmallow Gnome.

                                                                                                _- Hikari Nanase AKA "Chick Peep"_

~*~*~*~

**Pulse-_ v._**To make rhythmic sounds, movements, or contractions. [From Latin, _pulsus_, from _pellere_, beat]

                                                                                _-Webster's Dictionary_

~*~*~*~

                That night the house rocked back and forth, for the wind's temperament had suddenly fallen for the worse. At first morning, its heavy cries howled an evil testament belonging to none other than the eye of the tree. 

                A testament: a story unveiled through the voice of stillness- the voice of the plains, nature's great listener. 

                Footsteps walked about the house. They left muddy prints all over the floor. The child's mother heard screaming and shouting. She heard running and crying. Even the walls pounded, they shrieked in horror at the unwelcome presence that left no shadow. She went downstairs and turned on the light. Nothing. 

                Her son had awakened as well, he watched the light come on from the stairs and saw his mother's stride pass his bedroom. Then the light went out again. 

                Outside, the iron gates protested against their locks and the red bike fell over completely. 

                His pinwheel was ripped from the soil. It lay upon the wet earth, dead.

                "Good morning, mommy."

                "Good morning, Shuiichi. Did you sleep well last night?"

                "No. The wind was so loud… Daddy left for work already?"

                "Yes, dear… You're right, the wind was very angry last night. I went out into the yard, and everything was a mess."

                "Where's the syrup?"

                "On the counter, sweetheart. Have a seat."

                "What happened to the yard?"

                "Oh, everything was thrown onto the ground. It will take a while for me to fix the garden, I'm afraid."

                "Is my bike okay?"

                "It is. Plan on going out again?"

                "Yes, mom."

                "Well, be careful. If you think another storm is on its way, be sure to come home immediately. Don't forget your sweater."

                "Yes, mom.

                 He finished his pancakes quickly and jumped from his seat in the kitchen. Fleetingly, he peeked through the lattice of the living room to see what destruction was brought from the childish tantrum the air threw. His spring eyes widened; it was terrible indeed.  The marks he had left upon the muddy soil were there no more- completely erased from one night's erosion. Flowers that were already wilting were either shaved bald or beheaded. Yellow and brown petals stuck onto the earth like tar and feathers. Leaves abandoned their proper home. 

                But then he happened to look further, and saw the solitary tree. Strong and ominous it stood, almost mocking all others for it still bore rich foliage the shade of blood. As the rise of the sun came from behind it, the leaves glowed with ruby… the ruby shivered and rattled- the ruby shivered and rattled.

                The child came away from the window and swung open the coat closet, realizing to his dismay that the boy covered in mud still had his sweater. Glancing at the kitchen, he noted his mother's attention drawn into doing the dishes. Quietly, he shut the closet and tiptoed outside. Come away from here, a familiar voice whispered into his hear. Come away from here.

                And so he came away. 

Heavily he sighed, green eyes then roaming for his bike, which had been left by the porch banister. 

                It no longer leaned against it, however. Instead it was embedded within a small plot of daisies, crushing the poor plants entirely. The boy shrugged, understanding such cases of inevitability as these. Carefully, he climbed down the porch steps and lifted the bike, causing the soil to rain. 

                Not in horrible condition. The paint had faded but slightly, the chains were not too rusted, and the wheel still turned. He sat on the bike and gripped onto the handlebars.

                A chill crawled up his back and tickled his shoulders. Very cold. The fields beyond seemed to agree. The reeds moaned unhappily to the north, as the south wind made them bow at the child's feet without relent. Regardless of unwelcoming objections from the fields that knew too much, the boy pedaled forward. He was faced, however, with the air pushing him backwards against the ground. The air was so sharp it caused needles to prickle the child's irises- making him squint and shed uncalled-for tears. 

                Go back. Go back. Go back, bellowed the thistle, the barley, and the reeds. Go back. Go back. Go back. 

                But the eye of the tree stared blankly at him, beckoning him to ignore the tongueless voices. 

                Go back. Go back. Go back. The tree smells of decay. People were killed on this tree. They were tortured. They were touched. Demons come here to drink of its rancid, bloody sap. Flies come here to make their nests and bear their children. Harsh wind from the south is born from the shouts of agony in hell. No good can come from this tree. It is a blind tree. It sees only darkness. It sees only suffering. Turn back. Turn back. Turn back. The flies and the decay will chase you.

                You woke him from his slumber. Do what needs to be done, Kurama.

                Go back. 

                Come to me. You are invited.

                Turn back.

                Don't be afraid of the hell child. He cannot hurt you if he loves you... Let him love you…

                Removing his feet from the pedals, the child placed them firmly on the ground and raised his open-palm foreword furiously.  

_"I demand silence!"_

The reeds ceased their moaning and the tree froze its leaves. The sun went higher into the sky, and the airs were no more. His eyes flashed a warning shade of amber, frown upon his young forehead a deadly wrinkle. At present he decided on this, and this alone: his ears would be reserved for someone else today, care not for beings without lips. 

                As he turned about the curb and followed the primeval road along the mountain's foot, his body would bounce lightly above his rubber seat- running over a myriad of pebbles and blemishes that made the earth have freckles. With these freckles were strands of hair- the fields- and a cool breath that blew from the mountain spring. The world seemed to sigh as he made his travel over it, whispers from on-looking willows and fern clouding his ears- laughs from crows and sparrows taunting them mercilessly with song. 

                He approached the eye- a large, gapping hole in the trunk of the tree. Spider webs and fungus clotted the socket. They captured the flies and larvae that made their nests there. Amusing.  Even marks of death were destroyed by death. Pests that fed on  rotting remains were eaten by rotting, white thread. It smelt like fall here.

                 The bike was dropped in the middle of the field, just as before. The front wheel went upright, but with a hushed wind it could not spin. Everything was still. 

                Wandering around the tree, he searched for the boy with snowy skin, autumn eyes, and birdlike frame. To his surprise, the hole he had dug in the ground was there no more. Rather, the area in which it had been sprouted a peculiar growth of ash-colored moss. He bent down and touched the moss. It seemed to turn into powder at his fingertips.

There's only one kind of gray powder that exists. It must be ash, and ash must come from things that had once pulsed. They killed him after they found me. They said it was his fault for not paying more attention to me and the girl. Red rings around her arms were bracelets they were mine too together we broke the chains and ran fast it rained I know it did because of all the mud that went in my mouth I got tired and fell at the tree I remember the smell of lilac in that field purple flowers always mean one thing you should have watched the chamber you should have watched the chamber bastard got drunk pour the acid on him. He turned into ash powder the girl took the rest of it and poured it on herself before back at that house she became the girl with the half-face papa used to touch me so we ran away together I knew he wanted to touch you too but because you got something they want. At least that way she won't be touched but then she was never able to turn into gray moss and ashes like she wanted to. That boy down there, what is he doing? "… You like touching dead people?"

                The voice that uttered those words was pale and indifferent. It sounded from a branch that was directly over the child's head. Instinctively, he swung around and glimpsed up, happy to see that familiar stoic face.                

"You came back!"

                "…It's hard to leave… when you are _bound_…"

                He crept closer to the branch, in awe of the noticeable change of disposition. The little one didn't shiver or rattle like the reeds. No. Instead he languished against the trees spread branch, focusing livid irises at everything before him like a cynical feline. He looked down upon the red haired boy with neither malice nor reception, but with strict observation. Today he seemed much healthier; presumably the meal had done something for him. From below, the child felt proud and tenderly patted the trunks rough skin. This slight movement caused the leaves hovering over the other's face to fall softly onto the field and reveal his unsympathetic stare. The corner of his lip twitched as his eyes glinted with lazy apprehension. He didn't appreciate being unmasked.  

                He's not afraid of me. His timing is off. With the others they were fast they wouldn't have wasted a moment with me doesn't he know anything I tried to run away again but instead I'm still here they fastened my legs with iron hooks I can't move it hurts but the garb he gave me…

                 "I heard you."

                "…Heard me?" I didn't say anything.

                "Yes. Last night, you made the house complain-" 

                And it had. Almost all night it rocked back and forth like a boat in a tempest-burdened sea. Then there were the footsteps that pattered up and down the staircase, and across the wooden living room. He was running out of that place with bare feet smeared in blood and ankles shackled with heavy cuffs. There were muddy prints. The floor was cold. It felt like ice and granite. This house is filled with complaints. Six walls six chambers six dungeons and no windows it was always filled with the fire of anger and the sulfur of mortal suffering if you want to get out of here, kid, you have to stick with me I'm the only person who can get you out of here what you don't believe me I believe you but I already found an escape I can leave but still be where I am I won't let them touch my insides again. I won't let them touch my insides again. I won't let them touch my insides again. This house is filled with complaints… just like my body.

                Closing his eyes, he pretended to attempt some sleep. But when he did this, he remembered his place- he remembered where the hooks were… in his calves, tearing away at his skin, grinding heavily against his bones. Then there were his arms: suspended in barbed wire. He looked outside and saw the tree amidst the lilac field. It felt good to have sunlight pour through the prison bars and spread its heat across his blood-caked face. It felt good to see the tree he always ran away to… like now.

"…It's your fault… not mine."

                "_My_ fault!"

"You… took me into your home…"

"What?"

"…Now they know where I am."

"You always say 'they'- who's they?"

His eyes sparked open, and his muscles tensed from beneath his dark clothing. They didn't have names. They were not completely different from him in this horrid sense. But of course he had something. When you have something, everyone else wants it. That's what makes you different. That's what makes you hated and wanted. That was what they were: coveters.

Hold still… hold still… hold his wrists tight I'll go first he has it what they say is true he has it hold him down I'll go first we'll take the glass one of us should be able to get it keep him on the ground so many belts not enough too bad hold him down. You little slut damn belts give me the knife grab his legs give me the knife it's inside.

"…You ask… too many questions."

"But I want to hear the _truth_ from you."

He closed his eyes and saw his place. Blood was trickling down his arms as slowly as a small spring. It was sticky and hot. The girl with the half-face and the papa that- why was he still here? He looked down and saw his legs- they anchored down by the giant hooks. It smelt like urine here, and he smelt like vomit. There were flies and mosquitoes hovering over his sweat drenched face. Thirsty. He drank his own perspiration as it dripped from the tip of his nose. It tasted good.

A grimace crossed his white complexion before he finally spoke.

"…Stupid…"

 One word, and it didn't even prescribe the smallest bit of kindness. The child did not know what to say in response to that jagged remark. Patiently he considered expression of acknowledgment in its ever-fickle form. At least if he insults you- _teases_ you- you know your presence has not been overlooked. In the strangest way, it was, indeed, a sign of welcome and acknowledgment. Yet at the same time it was utterly derogative.

While thought about this, something light blue in color dangled before his nose. Before long, it had been fully released by the one who held it, hence allowing the garment to drape languidly over the child's lively face.

"…Your garb…"

"Oh, you remembered it."

He said this in a sweet, yet muffled tone from behind the cottony fabric. 

"…Your mother asked for it back… I will not disobey."

He quickly swiped the sweater away from his head and wrapped it around his waist.

"Thanks."

Is that gratitude? He doesn't know where it's been.  It kept me warm when the put me here after they put mud in my mouth soft like mother's breath and light like her caress gratitude for returning what belongs to him that isn't right he doesn't know who he loaned such kindness to. 

"Hey… What happens when they find you?"

"…Not your business…"

"Huh! Can't you tell me _anything_?"

"…Why the hell do you care? You do not own me…"

"_Own _you!"

                In the real world that surrounded them both, essentially everything was masterless. A servant would only serve himself, but with the child who refused to speak outside of meanness, this ideal was unheard of. Either owned or astray, the options were never hopeful. The tree, the lilac field, and the girl with the half-face were as free as the iris: bound by the roots, yet capable of omniscient sight. Even now, away from the house with the devil's chambers and cells, the scent of spilled intestines and mucus were upon him. Even without the wind that carried the birds by their wings, the scent lingered. The flies couldn't resist. They were killed by the spiders.

                The little one's unresponsiveness somewhat worried the boy. He kept perfectly still and would not let even a fragment of dust twitch his diminutive nose. Nevertheless, the boy saw unhappiness swimming in the deep, black pupils of those crimson eyes. There was a reflection within those pupils, and it most certainly did not reflect the great vista set before them. He was dreadfully unhappy. There were cage bars in his irises. The child saw them clearly. He stepped closer to the tree and tugged on the tip of the little one's sleeve. This gesture made him all the more irritable- thin eyebrows arching and muscles tensing once more. Earnestly, the other tried to smile.

                "Listen, why don't you just- just _play_ with me?'

                "…Play?"

                "Yes. Won't you?"

                Play. A silly idea, but it seemed as though the insects knew it better than he did. Grasshoppers jumped as high as their limits, daring to test them. Crickets sang. Butterflies flirted with pollen. However, not now. What was left of play were the floating fireflies. The grasshoppers had starved. The crickets had burrowed. The butterflies had shriveled into sandy fragments of colorless tissue. The little one made no effort to move. His season was autumn, and he subconsciously chose to abide by it.

                "…I… cannot play where I am… Besides, I refuse to walk…"

                "You can't walk?"

                "... I said I _refused _to walk…"

                "What's wrong? Legs hurt?"

                "…I refuse to walk…"

                "If you're not coming down, _I'm_ coming up!"

                The entire tree vibrated as he swiftly bounded up the branches confidently. Thrashing could be heard from behind, and the little one scowled as he edged himself away from the other's presence. Too close. He's going to touch me and then he'll take it away from me that's what all of them have tried to do they hurt my insides by pinning me down I could smell the grass and water they put mud in my mouth when they held me down and then he took the knife and the belts tore too close get away from me he wants it but its inside of me and it's not mine to give.

                "…Stay away from me."

                "Why?"

                "Too many questions! Stay away!"

                'If your legs hurt, you should let me see them."

                "Stay away! Stay away! I'll kill you if you won't stay away!"

                "But I can help!"

                "Don't touch me!"

                "How can I help if you won't let me_ touch _you!"

                "I never asked for your help!"

                He didn't listen. Stubbornness may have been a trait for the hell child, but it was a trait that was effortlessly matched by this stranger who had already given him food and clothing. Now he wanted to set his hands upon his body in order to take his proper pay. The glass.

                Climbing across the other end of the branch, the boy crouched before the outstretched legs. Later he spread his supple palms across the scrawny shins.

                "Your legs are stiff!            

                "What- what are you doing to me?"

                "Checking what's wrong with you… I don't get it. Your legs are stiff, but I don't know why. What happened?"

                "…Nothing… They'll get better. Leave me alone…"

                "Does it hurt if I do this?"

                "Argh!! Stop it!"

                "Sorry. I guess rubbing it won't do."

                Beyond feeling threatened, the hell child lunged forward and tried to bite the boy's face with his fangs. Unfortunately, his range of motion was so limited that the boy successfully evaded the barbaric attack. Some of the crows from the tree saw what happened. Cackling, they fiercely flew out of the foliage. Ebony feathers dropped. They dropped with the leaves. Red leaves like the bike that was turned over. Red like blood and his hair. The boy giggled, and spring shimmered in his face as he grinned. Let's shiver and rattle, and make beautifully sad music… Let's make music together…

                "You're silly."

                "I am not! Stay away or I will do it again!"

                The child's body bobbed up and down, the end of the branch playing as a seesaw. He giggled impishly as his soft hair flew up and down with every motion of the tree's wicked finger. On the other end, towards the fork of the tree, his friend frowned doubtfully. Yet he could not help but ease. The boy before him still smelt like vanilla, sugar, and rose- a scent utterly different compared to the lilac field that bred frightening violet flowers. 

                The lilac field saw everything. The flowers laughed at him. They rustled and gossiped. Water got on his face then. It was sweet dew from the lightning streaked sky. When he ran away, he brought that sky with him. The house complained. He and his sky weren't welcome. 

                Since the child was laughing, the air dared its luck by whistling. Yellow fluff drifted from the fields like garden fairies. The crows that had flown away played with them using their talons. The fluff danced. More feathers fell.

The child stopped laughing, leaning over slowly. Anxiously, the little one pressed his back against the fork. Baring his teeth and snorting, he momentarily caused the other to hesitate. Nevertheless, he had a sense to realize who claimed advantage over whom. Using both hands, the child traced the other's gashed feet. The other tried to bend his knees and pull them back, but found to his alarm that his knees were literally locked in place by a painful numbness. Upon first contact with the mangled skin, the boy gasped. It felt as if it had treaded upon the faces of a million shards of crystal. Small strings of cuts were everywhere. Bubbles of water-filled skin. Craters of bubbles popped. Portions of skin felt like leather. Gross and appalling. 

Ashamed of the condition of his body, he looked away. What fool would dare to lay his hands upon something this vile?

"Feel anything?"

Through the corner of his eye, he glanced back. Shockingly, the boy still had his hands on his feet. And they were moving. The small, almost insignificant palms slid against his soles and the fingers around his rough toes. 

"Even if your legs hurt, you can't stop walking. Mom tells me that a lot. So does dad. If you can't walk, you can't get anywhere. That's true, but I guess sometimes you need rest."

He allowed the pus and the oil to seep in between his fingers, and later pressed soothingly into the hell child's soles with both thumbs.

"Plants don't know as much as they say they do. They don't get around. They only see what's around them and make guesses about the truth. You know more when you move. Looks like you've done that a little too much, huh?"

                Can't move if the mud is slippery it pulls you back. The wind is that way. I ran and fell. Dirt went up my nose and my tears turned into earth. I hid my tears in the grass when they reached for it by slicing the belts I remember the wet grass it was comfort when they the cloth ripped and then I saw nothing but the scary purple flowers. They saw what they did to me, and still they smiled. "…I didn't… have a choice…" 

                "Nope. You did. You could have sat still."

                Hold still… hold still… hold his wrists tight I'll go first he has it what they say is true he has it hold him down I'll go first we'll take the glass one of us should be able to get it keep him on the ground so many belts not enough too bad hold him down. You little slut damn belts give me the knife grab his legs give me the knife it's inside.  "…Even if I ran, I got no where."

                "You sure? You got to meet me, didn't you?"

                Bright hair like sunset. Round eyes.  There's nothing bright. Not there where the red circles were angry enough to make my wrists and ankles hurt. Shadows move it's the rodents they nibble at my body at night on the straw it itches and brown blood is on the straw in the morning that's how I know they're eating me alive. The bright face that I saw in the mud. It's his.  "Is that supposed to mean I'm lucky?"

                There was no reply. In place of a reply was the boy's sudden attention drawn into the muck that was trapped in between the crevices of dried skin. 

"Really dirty."

The sleeve of the light blue sweater was perfect. He took the sleeve that was wrapped around his waist and carefully wiped out the bits of sand and twig. For a moment, it was as though the little one's feet sighed and took in a deep breath of clean air. 

"There. Now they're clean. Better?"

The fields wanted to shout. The reeds vibrated like flutes. The crows disappeared. It is a very strange thing when crows in plain sight suddenly fade into nothing. A wind from the south returned. The leaves shivered and rattled. The leaves shivered and rattled. Clouds in the sky swirled with gray ash that was once on the ground. When earth smells of ash, hell is discontented. Hell took the crows. They witnessed more than could be allowed. They must be blinded like the tree. Spiders and flies.

                Walking would come soon. Then he could run again. Better. They were better. Run away from the place with the spiders and the flies- the vomit and the sweat. "…It's foolish of you to help me. What kind of idiot are you?…"

                "I know more than you think I do. I know why you come to this tree."

                "I could care le-"

                "-It _chose_ you."

"Chose me?"

                "The tree is missing an eye. Soon that eye will find its way to you. Soon you will see everything."

                "Garbage."

                "Nope. You wear the mark. I can see it, but _you_ can't."

                "Mark?"

                "On your forehead- the blue line. I told you: it _chose_ you."

                "You are a liar."

                "Sometimes, but not now. When the time comes, you'll know I'm right."

"You have no idea of _what_ I am!"

                "Then tell me, who _are _you?"

                "Only if you tell me who _you_ are."

                "I'm Minnamino Shuiichi."

                "Who's that?"

                "Me."

                "Who are you?"

                "Minnamino Shuiichi."

                "That answers nothing. _You_ know nothing."

                Unruffled, the boy flipped from the branch with his legs and landed on the ground. 

"No one does. That's why being human is hard. We know things don't have real names, but we give things names to give them value. It's funny. A name has no meaning either… it's just there for comfort- just there so maybe someone will remember who we are when we die."

"Hn. I have a name and I am not human."

The child smiled to himself, not turning around to reveal it. 

"I'll come back tomorrow. Then we'll play."

                He looked back at the tree.

                "Okay?"

No one was there.

                                                                                __


End file.
